


Phantom Warriors

by JJJunky



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 22:03:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJJunky/pseuds/JJJunky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mulder and Scully follow a case to Deadwood, South Dakota.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phantom Warriors

Phantom Warriors  
By JJJunky

 

Deadwood, South Dakota

The night air was crisp and cold - a portent of the winter waiting just around the corner. Herbert Mumphrey limped slowly down the narrow street inhaling a mixture of exhaust fumes and pine trees. At one time, this had been his favorite time of year. Too late in the season for the tourists, who clogged the town all summer long visiting Wild Bill Hickok's grave and the saloon where the gunslinger met his death; too early for the skiers who would flock to Terry Peak following the first snowfall. Things weren't the same anymore. The recent addition of casinos to the old western town had changed everything.

Raucous laughter echoed through the clear air turning Herbert's smile to a frown. Disdaining the history that surrounded them, the gamesters spent their time - and money - challenging Lady Luck. Herbert had fought against legalized gambling, but he'd been in the minority. All the city officials wanted were the dollars flowing into their coffers - and their pockets. The spiritual death of their city was a small price to pay.

"Hey, old man!"

Herbert stopped at the edge of an alley. He felt no fear. He'd spent his entire life in Deadwood and never made an enemy. Even those upset over his opposition to the casinos had respected his position.

Before Herbert could identify the familiar voice, an object flew threw the air and imbedded itself in his chest. Blood oozed from the gaping hole torn by the arrow. Herbert uttered a mew of surprise before his life spirit took flight.

 

FBI Headquarters  
Washington, D.C.

Dana Scully sensed the presence of a stranger in the office she shared with her partner, Fox Mulder. Her recent experiences surrounding her father's death had left her feeling vulnerable and adrift. Silently chastising herself for such fanciful thinking, she threw the door open. When she saw her suspicion confirmed, she felt more than just a little uneasy.

Standing at Mulder's shoulder was a short, slimly built man of Native American heritage. In his early thirties, his long, black hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. A three-piece suit and tie looked out of place on his lithe frame.

Bent over a report, Mulder didn't look up as he greeted his partner. "Morning, Scully." 

Exasperated but not surprised by her colleague's lack of manners when he was involved in an investigation, Scully put her briefcase on her desk before crossing to their visitor and holding out her hand. "Hello, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully."

"Thomas Red Dog," the stranger replied in a deep voice, pleasant to the ear.

His words muffled by his position, Mulder explained, "Thomas has come to us with a very interesting problem."

"It must be," Scully ruefully agreed, "since you couldn't bother to take the time to introduce us."

"Thomas represents the South Dakota Division of Tourism," Mulder said, ignoring - or not hearing - the sarcasm in his partner's voice. "Needless to say, multiple murders in the same vicinity have a tendency to make his department nervous. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I might, if I knew what the hell you were talking about!" Scully no longer tried to hide her annoyance.

Mulder's deep green eyes rested briefly on Scully's face, remorse written in their depths, before returning to the photographs he'd been studying. "In the last week there has been three murders in Deadwood, South Dakota."

"Is that an unusually high figure?" Scully asked, turning her attention to Thomas. "Didn't they legalize gambling a few years ago and bring in Las Vegas type casinos?"

"Our casinos aren't on the same scale," Thomas hastily assured. "A higher crime rate was predicted. What makes these murders unusual and dangerous is the weapon that was employed."

"All three victims were killed by arrows," Mulder elaborated, laying a picture on the corner of his desk so Scully could see it.

Swallowing nervously as she studied the photo, Scully stuttered, "Y-you mean arrows as in cowboy and Indian type bows and arrows?"

Thomas picked up a close-up and handed it to the agent, "The murderer is even using the Lakota marking."

"I see your problem," Scully hesitantly admitted, "but this looks like a case for the local police. What does it have to do with the X-Files?"

Rising from his desk, Mulder turned on a slide projector precariously perched on the top of a filing cabinet. Dimming the lights, he said, "This was the first victim, Herbert Mumphrey. An eighty-year-old, Caucasian male. Widowed, he lived alone for the past five years. As far as the authorities know, he didn't have an enemy in the world."

"As far as they know," Scully emphasized. "If you study the latest statistics, you'll see the frequency of assailants unacquainted with their victims is on the rise."

Mulder's only response was to click the button calling up the next slide. "This is Susan Goodrich, a school teacher from Sturgis, South Dakota. She came to Deadwood with some friends to celebrate her recent engagement. The arrow entered her body with such force several feathers of the fletching buried themselves inside the wound." The photograph of a smiling young woman in her early twenties was replaced by that of a middle-aged man with a wife and two teenage daughters. "Our latest victim was Mark Reilly of Fargo, North Dakota."

Warned by the soft clicking of a switch, Scully squinted her eyes against the bright light before it flooded the room. The happy family faded into a smudge of color against a featureless background.

Sadly turning to the still photograph in her hand, Scully pushed away the compassion she couldn't afford to feel and still do her job. "What do these people have in common?"

"Nothing," Mulder revealed, trying to moderate the excitement he always felt when a case presented unconventional elements. "There's no relationship between the victims. Autopsies show the killer had to be within fifteen feet of the target for an arrow to have entered the body with such force. The murders were committed within the sphere of a total of ten witnesses, yet nobody saw anything."

"Does anyone have a theory?" Dana pressed. Unlike her partner, she looked to tangible sources before embracing the incorporeal rationale.

"That's part of our problem," Thomas answered, looking more uncomfortable. "Many of the Lakota elders are saying it's the warrior spirits angered by the further desecration of our sacred Black Hills. Relations between Native Americans and whites have never been convivial, but now things are threatening to explode. We could have a modern day Indian war on our hands."

"Then I guess we better find out who's doing this," Scully unhappily conceded, "before that happens."

Gathering the photographs and reports he'd been studying, Mulder slid them into his briefcase. "Our flight from Dulles leaves at 11:30."

 

Deadwood, South Dakota

Scully allowed the two men to escort her to the door of her hotel room. When Mulder attempted to follow her in, she called a hasty goodnight before practically closing the door in her partner's face. Securing the chain, she threw her suitcase on the bed and opened it. Gathering her robe and toiletries, she entered the small bathroom. Unlike many of the newer hotels, this one didn't have a counter encircling the sink. Lowering the lid of the toilet, she improvised a shelf to hold her belongings. Following the directions printed in bold letters on the wall, she flipped the shower curtain to the inside of the tub. Sliding it closed, she turned on the faucets. While she waited for the water to warm up, she undressed and hung her clothes on the hook hanging by a single screw on the inside of the door.

She had thought they would never arrive in Deadwood. A flight that included a three-hour layover in Minneapolis was followed by a short wait in Rapid City as the paperwork for their rental car was processed. When they finally arrived at their destination, all she'd wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed.

Steam clouded the mirror. Pushing aside the shower curtain, she stepped into the stained and chipped porcelain tub. Water rushed over her shoulders, easing the tension that had tightened muscles into painful knots. Closing her eyes, Scully shut out all thought of mutilated bodies and the weapon that had caused such damage. Ever since she was a little girl, she'd been unable to watch a movie western. The sound effect of an arrow flying through the air was enough to give her nightmares for weeks. Now here she was - a participant in her own Wild West show.

The curtain rattled making her eyes snap open. She smiled sheepishly when she realized it was her own elbow brushing against the plastic screen that had caused the disturbance. Reluctantly, she turned off the water. Anxious to begin the investigation, Mulder would be pounding on her door at an ungodly hour. Missing her own plush towels, she dried herself with a thin piece of cotton no self-respecting tourist would have any desire to steal.

Slipping into a robe and slippers, she returned to the garishly decorated bedroom. Shouts from outside drew her to the large picture window. Drawing back the edge of the curtain, she looked out to see five men taking turns kicking and hitting what looked like two bundles of clothing. It took her a minute to realize the bundles were Mulder and Thomas. Both men had rolled into fetal positions, arms protectively cradling their heads. Though it was obvious on the faces of their opponents the battle hadn't always been one-sided, numbers had foretold the victors.

"Stop it!" Scully screamed, throwing off the chain and opening the door. "Let them go!"

A bruise marking his right check, one of the assailants glanced up at her and laughed before burying his foot in Mulder's side.

Frantically searching for help, Scully's eyes rested on a police car parked near the hotel office. Oblivious to the cold nipping at her ankles, she ran across the parking lot. "Aren't you going to stop them?" she demanded, pounding on the glass to gain the patrolman's attention.

"Stop what?" the deputy drawled, rolling down his window. "The boys are jus' havin' a little fun."

"Fun!" Scully roared, "They're killing my friends."

"I won't let that happen," reassured the officer, taking a sip from a Styrofoam cup.

Anger shading her vision, Scully ran back to her room. Dumping the contents of her purse on the bed, she retrieved her gun and ID. Rushing back outside, she announced, "Stop or I'll shoot."

Blood streaming from cuts on his face, Mulder was the only one who glanced in Scully's direction. A grunt escaped his lips as a foot connected with his lower back.

The sound focusing her anger, Scully raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The loud explosion was followed by a shocked silence. Lowering the weapon, she aimed it at a boy whose leg was raised ready to stomp on Thomas' hand. "Now back away or the next bullet won't be in the air."

Obscene protests were flung at her even as her order was obeyed. Pushing through the cowed youths, the patrolman whined, "Now, why don't you jus' give me that gun before you hurt someone, little lady?"

"I'm Special Agent Scully of the FBI," Dana replied, flashing her I.D.

"That's real nice, little lady, but there's no need to be wavin' that gun around." The deputy spoke slowly as though the person he was addressing was mentally unbalanced. "Why don't you jus' let me have it?"

Seething from the condescending attitude, Scully demanded, "Why don't you arrest those hooligans?"

"Why would I want to do that?" the officer inquired, his eyes raking the other participants in the unfolding drama looking for an answer to his question.

"They've assaulted two innocent men," Scully angrily pointed out, her hand shaking with her rage. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"I need a warrant to make an arrest." The lawman turned, acknowledging Thomas' existence for the first time. "Are you gonna press charges, Chief?"

An arm folded protectively across his stomach, Thomas struggled to his feet. "No, no charges."

"What!" Mulder's shocked gasp was followed by a groan. Speaking around lips swollen to almost twice their normal size, he protested, "Those guys just beat the crap out of us because you're a Native American and you're going to let them get away with it?"

Dark eyes warily concentrated on the deputy, Thomas nodded. "I'll explain, later."

"That's not good enough." Muffled cries of pain marking his progress, Mulder staggered to his feet. "I'll swear out a complaint, Officer."

"I don't think you want to do that, Mister." Retaining eye contact with Thomas, the deputy threateningly exhorted, "Does he, Chief?"

"Mr. Mulder doesn't want to press charges," Thomas agreed, ignoring his companion's protests.

A hand patting the gun strapped to his hip, the deputy said, "I didn't think he would. Goodnight, folks."

A wave of the officer's hand sent the five boys climbing into a rusty old truck that at one time might have been red. Exhaust belching from a cracked tail pipe, the rattletrap coughed to life. Spewing gravel in its wake, it disappeared into the night. The police car followed at a more sedate speed.

"What was that all about?" Mulder demanded, moving toward Thomas on unsteady feet.

"Ask him again later," Scully interceded, crossing to her partner's side. As gently as she could, she inspected his battered body, "Right now, you both need more medical attention than I can furnish with a first aid kit. Where's the nearest hospital, Thomas?"

"The closest one won't administer aid to an Indian or an Indian sympathizer," Thomas dispassionately observed. "But I know a place that will."

"Good. Give me the car keys, Mulder," Scully ordered. Without waiting for her partner's often stubborn compliance, she slid her hand into his jacket pocket. Jingling the keys triumphantly, she turned to unlock the car.

"Scully?" Mulder called.

"No argument, Mulder," Scully snapped, ignoring the plea she thought she heard in the throaty voice. "You need medical attention."

"I agree," Mulder surprisingly yielded. "I was just wondering if you really wanted to drive around South Dakota in a robe and pink, fuzzy slippers?"

For the first time since she'd seen her friends being beaten, Scully remembered her attire. Letting her hair fall forward to hide her face, she finished unlocking the car. "Get in, I'll be back in five minutes. See if you can stay out of trouble for that long."

 

A clinic south and east of Rapid City, South Dakota 

Scully paced the small waiting room, trying to deplete the adrenaline released by the evening's activities. What kind of place was this? Unwelcome at the hospital just down the road from the hotel, she'd had to drive thirty miles through mountainous terrain, in darkness, to receive medical aid. She felt like she'd entered another world - another age.

As a woman, she'd had to deal with her share of discrimination. First, in medical school then the Bureau. However, once she'd proven she could do her job, the taunts had diminished. She no longer respected the few who still questioned her abilities, thus, they had no power to hurt her.

"Agent Scully?"

The doctor Scully had seen briefly before he'd hustled the injured men into an emergency room walked toward her. Despite the man's rather unorthodox attire, blue jeans and a stained flannel shirt, Scully had felt no qualms relinquishing her friend's into his care. He had an air of confidence that had immediately calmed her initial fears. 

"How are they, Dr. Wheeler?"

"They'll live," the man assured her, ushering her back into the empty waiting room and urging her to sit. "Though, I'm not sure they'll want too for a while."

Having already made that diagnosis herself, Scully asked, "Are you going to keep them overnight?"

"I'd like to," Wheeler acknowledged, before shaking his head in the negative, "but they say they have too much work to do."

"Will it be dangerous for them to leave?" As she waited for the reply, Scully tried to devise an excuse to change her stubborn partner's decision.

"According to the x-rays, Thomas has some broken ribs, two broken fingers and extensive bruising," Wheeler detailed, counting the injuries off on his fingers. "While painful, they're not life threatening."

"And Mulder?" Scully anxiously pressed.

"He has three cracked ribs and is badly bruised." Slender fingers played with the long hair at the nape of his neck as Wheeler added, "The major thing to worry about is a slight concussion. You'll need to wake him every four hours to ask him questions. I'm sure you know the routine."

"Unfortunately, I do," Scully ruefully concurred, realizing she wouldn't be getting much sleep for what was left of the evening. Sometimes, she longed for a normal partner. One that wasn't quite so passionate about his work.

Limping slightly, the subject of her thoughts walked slowly down the corridor toward her. While some of the swelling on his face had diminished, the bruising had become more pronounced. Bright purple and blue stood out starkly on his pale face.

As he approached his worried partner, Mulder attempted a reassuring smile. Pain arrested the movement, turning it into a grimace. "Did the doc tell you? I'll live."

"He did," Scully acknowledged, hiding her compassion behind a brusque demeanor. "He also said you probably wouldn't appreciate that fact for a little while."

Carefully easing himself onto a chair flanking Scully's, Mulder groaned. "You're a pretty good diagnostician, Doc."

"I've had a lot of experience with these types of injuries," Wheeler unhappily observed.

The events of the evening replayed in Scully's head. Anger pulling her to her feet, she incredulously declared, "A policeman just sat in his car and watched while those boys beat the shit out of them. How could he do that?"

"Thomas is an Indian," Wheeler explained, his voice lacking the bitterness his listeners might have expected. "If it wasn't for Mr. Mulder's involvement, it's quite possible they would've killed him."

"Not with a policeman right there," Scully loyally refuted.

"Even with a policeman as a witness," Wheeler countered, the certainty in his voice washing away any doubts his audience might embody. "This is South Dakota. Indian baiting is in season all year around here. A white man can kill a Native American and not spend a day in jail. I know a mother who spent more time in prison after protesting the release of her son's murderer than the man who committed the crime."

Outraged, Mulder demanded, "If the state government won't do something about such injustice, why don't you contact the federal agencies?"

"Who?" Wheeler sneered, his nose wrinkling in disgust. "The BIA? Every year Congress confers about three billion dollars to the different Indian nations fulfilling the government's treaty obligations. The Bureau of Indian Affairs manages to siphon off ninety cents out of every dollar through bureaucratic waste, fraud and kickbacks. You think they're going to kill their golden goose, just because Redskins are starving to death?"

"There must be something you can do," Scully helplessly argued.

There was no anger in his eyes as Wheeler let his gaze rest on the young woman - only tolerance. "Do you know where the US poverty level is?"

"Somewhere around $6000 a year, isn't it?"

"Per capita income for an Indian on the reservation is about $3000. Unemployment is over eighty percent. There are no jobs on the reservation and no one will hire us elsewhere for fear of losing their white customers." Wheeler closed his eyes, but the gesture couldn't shut out the images burned into his heart. "As a doctor, I see people with injuries far worse than yours who have to travel over a hundred miles to get treatment. Yet, seventy percent of them don't have access to a car. The teen suicide rate is triple that of the national average. The life expectancy of a white man is seventy-eight, for an Indian on the reservation, it's forty-two."

Opening his eyes, Wheeler's dark gaze focused on Scully's distraught face. "Shall I go on?"

"How can this be?" Scully angrily wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "How can we condemn other countries for human rights violations and yet treat our own people this way?"

Thomas slowly entered the waiting room, his left arm in a sling. It was obvious he'd heard at least part of their conversation. "If you find an answer, I'd like to hear it."

"What makes it ironic," Wheeler pointed out, "is that we're the Native Americans. This was our country long before the white man came."

A grunt escaping his lips, Mulder climbed to his feet. He didn't even try to shrug off Scully's assistance, a clear indication of how much he was hurting. His desire to contribute to the conversation was drowned by his pain.

A prescription pad appeared in Wheeler's hand. Pulling a pen from his breast pocket, he scribbled a few lines before tearing off the top sheet and handing it to Scully. "This is for acetaminophen. It should help with the pain. I have no doubt both of my patients are going to need it." On another sheet, he wrote a series of numbers, "These are for my home phone and my office. If you need me for any reason, feel free to call. I even make house calls."

"Thank you, Doctor," Scully approved, studying the notes to be sure she could read them before stuffing them into her purse.

As the three started walking slowly toward the exit, Wheeler called, "There's an all night pharmacy on the road back to Deadwood."

Tension lifting from her shoulders and from behind her eyes, Scully gratefully acknowledged the physician's assistance. "Thank you, again."

 

Deadwood, South Dakota

With the soft glow of the early morning sun lighting his way, Charlie Cochran's step was more nimble than it had been in weeks. Soon, he could quit his job at the Midnight Star and return to the circuit. The broken leg he'd received at the Cheyenne Frontier Days Rodeo was completely healed. All that remained were a few more therapy sessions.

Dealing Blackjack to self-centered tenderfoots couldn't compare with the exhilaration of a ride on a bucking bronco. He'd spent his entire childhood dreaming of the day he could travel the circuit. Until recently, he'd prospered fulfilling that dream.

A yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. If he hurried, he could get back to the apartment he shared with his girlfriend in Spearfish before it was time for her to leave for work. The odd hours he'd maintained in his present position had almost been harder on their relationship than the time they were apart while he was on the road. Still, Connie never complained. She knew how important it was to follow a dream. Charlie marveled at his luck in finding such a soul mate.

Despite the recent wave of unexplained murders, Charlie felt no fear. However, his experience in the arena with the Brahma bulls had taught him to be on guard for any eventuality. Even as he bent to unlock his truck, his eyes swept the parking lot for danger. He saw nothing. Sighing with relief, he jerked the door open. Above the squeal of the hinges, he heard another sound - the whistling of an arrow streaking through the air.

* * * * 

A pounding on the door woke Scully from the light sleep she'd fallen into. The necessity of waking Mulder every four hours and the discomfort of the chair had conspired to keep her from falling into a deep slumber.

Throwing off the blanket that had combated the chill of the night air, she rose to her feet and crossed to the door. Pulling it open, she stumbled back feeling as though she'd been struck. In the doorway, was the same uniform that had haunted her dreams since her confrontation with the deputy in the parking lot.

"Sorry to wake you, Miss," the police officer apologized, putting a finger to the rim of his hat. "I was lookin' for the FBI agents."

"I'm Agent Scully," said Dana. Though the person facing her was different than the one from the night before, she stood ready to dive for her purse.

Surprise momentarily flashed across the ingenuous face before the embarrassed officer removed his hat. "I'm Mike Reese, Sheriff of Deadwood. I thought you'd like to know we had another incident this morning. There's one difference, though; the victim's still alive."

Hampered by his aching limbs, Mulder climbed from his bed and threw on a robe. "Were there witnesses?"

"Three other employees were walking to their cars at the same time."

Dim sunlight flashed across his bruised and battered face as Mulder walked slowly over to the door. It was obvious each step was torture. When Thomas rose to join them, his torment was written in the lines of his face and laborious passage.

"What the hell happened to you?" Reese gasped, shocked at the sight of the bandaged ribs and vivid bruising. 

Scully's stomach churned, as her anger returned. "A few of your citizens welcomed us to your town last night. One of your deputies even had a ring side seat."

"I'm sorry." Avoiding the agent's piercing gaze, Reese let his eyes drop to the tops of his shoes. "If I'd known you were here, I'd've warned my boys."

"That's very thoughtful," Scully sarcastically replied, unaffected by the apology. "What I'd like to know is what you're going to do about it now?"

Looking extremely uncomfortable, Reese admitted, "There's nothing I can do."

"Why not?" an incredulous Scully demanded.

Thomas interceded in a voice devoid of emotion. "For the same reason I wouldn't let Mulder press charges. If the sheriff does anything to those boys or that deputy, they'll retaliate against my family. I can't take that chance."

Scully shook her head in disbelief. "What do you have here, the western version of the KKK?"

"There isn't an official organization," Reese quietly allowed, distress clearly detailed on his face, "but, their motives and their methods are similar."

Brushing the hair out of her eyes with an impatient hand, Scully whispered, "I feel like I've stepped back in time."

"It's a feeling I fight every day," Reese returned, a deep sigh emphasizing his reaction.

His thoughts, as usual, centered on the case rather than the injustice he'd experienced firsthand, Mulder put a hand on his partner's shoulder to convey his understanding before addressing the officer. "You said our latest victim was still alive, Sheriff. Did he see anything?"

Obviously relieved to return to the purpose for his early morning visit, Reese pulled out his notebook. "Charlie Cochrane left the Midnight Star at approximately 7:05 a.m. In the parking lot behind the casino, in full view of at least three other employees, Charlie was attacked. Unlike the other victims, he apparently heard the arrow coming which gave him time to try to avoid it. Instead of entering his back, it struck him in the shoulder."

"Can I talk to him?" Mulder eagerly inquired.

"They were just taking him in to surgery when I left," Reese explained, fingering the brim of his hat. "The doc's pretty sure he'll make it, though, it looks like he'll probably lose an arm."

Disappointed, Mulder pressed, "Did you get to talk to him before they put him under?"

"Enough to know he didn't see anything, nor did anyone else." Referring to his notes again, Reese added, "Judging by the damage, Doc figures the assailant couldn't have been more than fifteen feet away. This would place our murderer at the edge of the parking lot. Careful inspection has failed to turn up even a single footprint in that area."

"Can you show us where it happened?" Mulder requested, already turning to put on his clothes.

"Be happy to," the sheriff agreed, relief printed across his worn features.

* * * *

Scully's stomach growled, reminding her breakfast had been one of the necessities Mulder had chosen to forego, the others being a shave and proper attire. Sweatpants and a flannel shirt had been much easier for his pain-racked body to slip into than the suit and tie he normally wore. A light drizzle fell making an uncomfortable search even more miserable.

Expecting to discover the crime scene totally compromised, Scully had been surprised to find how competently the local police had done their job. The only area that had been disturbed was around the blue truck owned by Charlie Cochrane. Yet, despite a thorough investigation by the FBI team, no clues were uncovered. Like the other assaults, the arrow seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Kicking at a clump of mud in frustration, Scully called, "Let's give it up, Mulder. We're not going to find anything here."

His frustration clearly visible, Mulder nodded agreement. "I guess all we can do now is send the arrow to Washington and see what the lab boys can uncover."

"Does that mean we can get some breakfast?" Checking her watch, Scully amended, "Or lunch?"

"Mr. Mulder," the sheriff tentatively suggested, "if you feel up to a little hike, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

Obviously intrigued by the mystery he heard in the other man's voice, Mulder suggested, "Let's eat first."

 

Spearfish Canyon  
About eight miles west of Deadwood

Driving into a beautiful gorge, the sheriff pulled the squad car off onto a narrow spot at the side of the road. From here, a bridge afforded them access across Spearfish Creek to the hills beyond. Scully softly cursed when her right foot slipped on a piece of vegetation and almost landed her on the muddy ground. The "little" hike Reese proposed started with a climb up the side of a hill. Though she was in excellent condition, Scully soon found herself gasping for breath. She could only imagine the pain coursing through her partner's body from the physical exertion. Their faces were pale, but neither he nor Thomas uttered a single word or complaint as they followed in the sheriff's wake. Shaking her head in admiration at their near impossible feat, Scully buried the resentment she'd felt since Reese's appearance at their doorstep that morning. In spite of her initial distrust, his desire to assist them appeared to be genuine.

Cresting the hill, wet leaves rained drops upon her face. Ignoring the discomfort, she hurried to catch up with her partner. If, and when, his body protested the punishment it was receiving, she would be there, even if all she could offer were moral support and a pain pill.

It's not much further," Reese encouraged, pointing ahead. "Once we cross that stream, it's only a quarter of a mile further on."

Having resigned herself to adding cold wet feet to her ordeal, Scully was surprised to find a log fording the stream. Reese scurried across, stopping on the other side to lend his companions assistance. With an agility equaling the sheriff's, despite being unbalanced by his injured arm, Thomas followed without incident.

His hand gently cupping his partner's elbow, Mulder suggested, "You go ahead, Scully."

Her muscles tense, Scully crossed the impromptu bridge. Upon reaching the other side, she started to turn to see how Mulder was faring when she heard a splash. She could barely keep the smile off her face when she saw him standing ankle-deep in the cold creek. "I can't believe you fell in, Mulder. We have to cross this same type of barrier every time we take a physical."

"I can never make it across all the way then either," Mulder sheepishly admitted. "My secret's out, I have a log crossing deficiency."

"Why didn't you say something?" Scully scolded with scarcely contained frustration. "You certainly don't need pneumonia with all your other ailments."

"We'll get his feet dried out at Red Cloud's cabin," Reese soothed the irate agent. "He'll be all right."

Only slightly mollified, Scully's anger grew as she listened to her partner squish his way down the trail. Pain and injury followed Mulder like a caboose on a train. Even locked inside a padded cell, she was sure he would manage to find a way to harm himself.

Lost in her own thoughts, Scully was surprised when a battered old structure suddenly appeared through the mist. It was unlike any building she'd ever seen before. One end was almost twice as high as the other with the lower section seeming to disappear into the side of the mountain. The slope of the roof was steep enough to strike fear into the heart of the most experienced skier. Smoke curled from holes dotting the walls of weathered timber.

"This use to be the entrance to a mine," Reese explained, clearly aware of his companions confusion. "Red Cloud sealed the entrances to make himself a home. Legally, he's not allowed to be here, but every time I throw him off, he just comes back. I finally gave up."

Pulling a notebook and pen from her purse, Scully asked, "Do you think Red Cloud is responsible for the attacks? Is that why you brought us here?"

"No!" Reese anxiously refuted. "Red Cloud isn't a killer. Don't ask me how, but sometimes, he knows things. I thought he might be able to help you."

"We'd welcome assistance of any kind," Mulder assured the officer.

Encouraged, Reese gently knocked on the flimsy door, "Red Cloud?"

"Tima hiyupo." _(Come in.)_

The words were incomprehensible to Scully, but obviously not to the Sheriff. Pulling the unlocked door open, he eagerly entered. Not totally certain she could trust the officer's assessment of the occupant, she opened her purse. Drawing her gun from its holster, she flipped off the safety and stuffed it into the pocket of her raincoat, before following her partner.

Inside the one room structure, old mixed with new. A bright gold thermal blanket neatly covered a mattress of pine branches and buffalo hide. In a darkened corner, a cracked storage case sheltered dried meat, vegetables and cans of Campbell's soup.

Only the wrinkles on his face showing his great age, a man agilely rose from where he sat before a fire. "Toskel ociciya owak hwo?" _(What can I do for you?)_

"We have come to ask for your help, Father." Though fluent in the language of his people, Thomas spoke the words of his companions.

It was a courtesy Red Cloud quickly adopted. "Come, sit and tell me how I can help."

Following his host's lead, Mulder sat on the floor in front of the fire and allowed Scully to pull off his shoes and socks. It was a feat his aching rib cage protested. Despite the discomfort of cold, wet feet, his thoughts were primarily centered on the case. "Sheriff Reese thought you might be able to shed some light on the identity of the assassin."

"If I had known who it was," Red Cloud assured, casting wounded eyes on the officer, "I would have told you, Mitakola." _(My friend.)_

Thomas fanned some of the smoke from the fire across his face and body before kneeling beside the older man. "Many of the people are saying it is the warrior spirits angered by the further desecration of Paha Sapa."

"That could not be," Red Cloud confidently refuted.

"Excuse me," Mulder interrupted, interest making his eyes sparkle in the dim light. "What is Paha Sapa and who are the warrior spirits?"

Red Cloud gazed into the fire. "It is said the Great Spirit reserved these hills for the spirits of departed warriors. Having already seen the splendors of Paha Sapa, they would not be blinded by the brilliance of paradise."

"Paha Sapa?" Mulder pressed, his curiosity piqued.

"That is the Lakota word for hills that are black."

Though more skeptical than her partner, Scully nonetheless found herself caught up in the tale. "What makes you so sure these warrior spirits aren't seeking revenge?"

"There is no honor in killing." Rising to his feet, Red Cloud crossed to an old trunk. Extracting a short stick, he returned to the warmth of the fire. "A warrior would count coup."

Scully shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. "Count coup?"

"Instead of killing his enemy, a Lakota warrior would try to touch him with a short stick." Red Cloud demonstrated by lightly tapping Mulder on the arm. "This showed the true courage of the warrior."

Taking the coup stick, Mulder carefully inspected it; professional responsibility as well as curiosity behind his motive. "As more whites invaded your land, the Lakota was forced to kill just to stay alive. Could it be these warriors who are angry?"

"You feel the spirits' anger?" Surprised by the revelation, Red Cloud leaned forward and put a hand on Mulder's shoulder.

"Maybe it's just the weather," Mulder temporized, gazing into the fire. "Or maybe it's just my own sense of rage at what I've heard and seen since we arrived."

A log shifted on the fire, shooting sparks into the air. A tiny piece of ash landed on the weathered skin of the old man. Absently brushing it off, Red Cloud admitted, "I feel the anger of the spirits, too, but, I think it is anger at the one who is doing this, not at all white men."

"Can they tell us who it is?" Mulder asked, studiously avoiding his partner's skeptical gaze.

Closing his eyes, Red Cloud softly chanted an ancient prayer. Defeat was reflected in the dark depths when he reopened his eyes. "All they will say is that if you believe only what you see with your eyes, you will be fooled. Things are not always as they appear."

"That's an understatement," Mulder muttered, his gaze fixed triumphantly on Scully.

A slight smile curving her lips, Scully shook her head. "Corroboration from some spirits isn't an authoritative endorsement for your theories, Mulder."

"It's a start."

Wind blowing through the cracks in the wall made the fire dance. It whistled, a sound closely resembling laughter.

Checking his watch, Reese observed, "If we want to get back to the car before dark, we better get started."

Grunts of pain marked his efforts as Mulder quickly pulled on his socks and shoes. Rising to his feet, he bent slightly to avoid hitting the low ceiling. Holding out his hand, he said, "Thanks for your help, Red Cloud. If the spirits come up with anything more specific, let me know."

"Keep your mind and your heart open," Red Cloud advised, gently tapping the location of each organ on his own body. "They may contact you themselves."

A soft glow lit the pale features. "I'll look forward to it."

* * * *

He drifted back into the shadows and watched as three men and a woman stepped from the cabin. Bloodshot eyes focused on a tall, slim figure. Even when the woman stopped to lend assistance to her limping companion, the malevolent gaze never faltered. This stranger believed the old Indian. He was going to ruin everything. All the planning, all the sacrifice would be for nothing - unless the stranger, too, became a victim of the spirits.

 

Midnight Star Casino  
Deadwood, South Dakota

Scully picked at her food, only taking a bite when Mulder's puzzled eyes rested on her face. She was jealous. The warrior spirits had dared to reveal themselves to her partner, but not to her. Did they know she didn't believe in their existence? Yet if she didn't believe, what was she jealous of? She had tried to open her mind only to have the perception elude her. Outside the cabin is where she had felt the presence of another. Unlike the tranquility afforded Mulder, she had felt fear. It was a searing dread making her aware Mulder's very existence was in jeopardy. How she knew this, she couldn't explain. Yet, it was a feeling as strong as any she'd ever felt before.

"If it's a war they want, we'll give it to 'em!"

Fists pounding on the wooden bar rose above cries of agreement and the ringing bells of the slot machines.

For a brief moment, Scully's disgusted glance rested on the young men at the counter. She knew who the vocal motivator was referring to. Thomas had predicted this very response back in Washington. Unless they found the killer soon, they could be witnesses to a modern day Indian war. A sense of urgency gripping her, Scully asked, "What do we do now?"

Pushing aside his partially eaten meal, Mulder said, "I'd like to search Herbert Mumphrey's house. If it's all right with you, Sheriff?"

"Herbert always kept a spare key under the front mat." A sad smile curved the thin lips. "I tried to tell him how dangerous that was, but he wouldn't listen. He couldn't believe anyone would want to hurt him."

"What do you think you'll find, Mulder?" Scully curiously inquired. Her partner rarely did anything without a reason.

"Mumphrey was the only local who's been victimized," Mulder reflected, absently nibbling on the end of a cold French fry. "It's possible he was targeted because he knew something. If so, he may have left a clue."

A cheer from the revelers at the bar set Scully's teeth on edge. Throwing a bill on the table to cover their meals and the tip, she closed her purse and rose to her feet. "Let's go."

"We don't have much time," Mulder pointed out, his eyes straying to the bar. "I think we should split up. Why don't you go to the hospital and interview Charlie Cochran?"

"We only have one car, Mulder."

Pushing back his chair, Reese suggested, "I can take you to the hospital. After I check in at the office, I'll pick you up and take you back to the hotel."

"I should check in as well," said Thomas, keeping a cautious eye on the drunken young men. "Would you mind dropping me at the hotel, too?"

"Not at all," the officer agreed.

As she watched Mulder walk out of the saloon alone, Scully thought how vulnerable he looked. The beating had left him with a slight limp. One arm hovered protectively across aching ribs. Instinct told her to ignore the logic of his suggestion and glue herself to his side. Only duty kept her from doing so. The logical course of action wasn't always the most desirable route.

* * * *

The key was right where Reese said it would be. Wiping off the mud encrusting the thin metal, Mulder inserted it into the simple lock. Inside, shadows loomed at him from out of the darkness. The only light came from a soft glow at the end of a short hallway. Mulder's fingers searched the wall for a light switch. He knew from experience that few people relished walking into a dark room, even in their own home.

His hand finally found what it was looking for. Light filled the room, momentarily blinding him. Blinking rapidly to dissipate the glare, he stepped into the living room. When he cracked his shin on a chair, he clamped down on his impatience and waited for his vision to clear. If there was one thing he didn't need, it was more bruises.

The first thing he noticed when his sight returned was the thin layer of dust coating every object in the room. It even peppered a glass of water sitting next to an old recliner. The worn fabric and sagging cushions indicated this was the former occupant's favorite chair. Books were scattered across the floor around it and on the surface of a small end table.

No matter how frequently he was forced to do it, Mulder always felt uncomfortable digging through the private possessions of the deceased. They could neither protest the desecration, nor give him their blessing. He was left to judge them by the material possessions of their lives. It was a responsibility he took very seriously.

Most of the books were westerns, Zane Grey, Louis L'Amour, with a smattering of science fiction represented by Heinlein and Asimov. Only one book didn't fit in either genre. It was a non-fiction novel dealing with crossbows.

Mulder eagerly turned to the pages denoted by a makeshift bookmark. Lifting the piece of scrap paper, he read the title: _How to Make your own Crossbow_. "Of course," he whispered, "that's how the killer's doing it."

"I knew you would try to ruin everything. But I won't let you."

The book still in his hand, Mulder whirled toward the open door. Entering the room was a stocky, young man. A scattering of freckles across a broad nose, hair bleached blond by the sun, and bulging muscles on arms and legs suggested a lifetime of farm work. Closing the door behind him, the intruder used the threat of a loaded crossbow to move the agent to the back wall.

Raising his hands, Mulder followed the silent instructions. Though talk wouldn't appease the boy's sensibilities, it would satisfy Mulder's curiosity. "How did Herbert Mumphrey get wind of what you were planning?"

"That stupid old man," the boy disdainfully snorted, "he saw me practicing. I could tell he was suspicious of the arrows I was using. When he took that book out of the library, I knew I couldn't wait any longer to put my plan in motion."

"What was your plan?"

"The annihilation of the Indian nations, of course."

"Hitler tried to do that with the Jews. He failed."

A claw like hand tightened on the stock of the crossbow. "I won't fail."

"You're not making sense." Genuinely puzzled, Mulder observed, "All your victims have been white. Aren't you killing the wrong people?"

"I can't do it alone. I need help."

"And what better way to get help than to start a war," an enlightened Mulder finished.

"It was working 'til you arrived to spoil everything."

"Always glad to be of service."

Angry color flushed the tanned cheeks a fiery red at the facetious remark. "Enjoy this!" A stubby finger pulled the string releasing the arrow.

Throwing himself to the side, Mulder hoped he was quick enough to outmaneuver the speeding missile. Only seconds later, he found out he wasn't. Pain stabbed his left shoulder telling him he'd lost his mental bet. The point tore through flesh, slamming him against the wall. His legs buckled, pulling him to the floor. The movement shot flames of agony down his arm, stiffening his limbs. After passing through his shoulder, the arrow had embedded itself in a stud, pinning him to the wall.

Unable to reach his gun, Mulder watched in horror as his assailant pulled back the trigger, preparing to reload the lethal weapon.

* * * *

She could feel them this time. They were whispering to her, filling her mind with pictures of Mulder and arrows. With a sense of urgency that wasn't her own, Scully put a hand on Reese's arm preventing him from turning into the hospital parking lot. "We need to go to Mr. Mumphrey's house."

"Quickly," Thomas added, obviously experiencing the same visions as Scully.

Reese was already turning the car. Flipping the toggles turning on his roof lights and siren, he admitted, "I hear them, too."

The car careened through the narrow streets. Scully's hand gripped the armrest so tight it left her fingers white, drained of life giving blood. It wasn't fear for herself making her so scared. But rather concern for her partner. An apprehension with no basis in reality. It only existed in her mind, and seemingly in the minds of her companions.

The car swerved into a driveway. Skewing slightly on the gravel, it barely missed the rental car's bumper. Dust stirred up by their arrival filled the air. Throwing her door open, Scully leapt from the car. "Mulder!"

"Don't come in, Scully." Her partner's order barely penetrated the closed door.

Pulling her gun, the young woman obeyed the puzzling command. Motioning Thomas and Reese to silence with a finger to her lips, she cautiously moved to the side of the house hoping to find a window without a curtain. A diaphanous fabric covered the first opening. Raising her head above the sill, she momentarily froze as her eyes took in the scene in front of her. Even as she began to raise her gun, she knew she would be to late. 

A strong breeze suddenly whipped around them blowing Scully's hair across her eyes. Desperately, she brushed the strands back behind her ears and pointed her gun at the spot the assassin had occupied only moments before - except he was no longer there. He lay face down on the floor… an arrow protruding from his back.

* * * *

For the second time in as many nights, Scully paced the floor of a hospital waiting room. She stopped when she saw Reese approaching with three cups of streaming coffee.

"Everything's set," the sheriff assured the agent. "Morris has agreed to put exactly what we requested on the death certificate."

"You think that will appease the restless natives?" Scully sarcastically inquired.

Taking a cautious sip of his drink, Thomas observed, "It's better than trying to explain what really happened."

"Agent Scully?" Blood staining his white coat, a heavyset, gray-haired man stood in the doorway.

Forgetting the hot beverage in her hand, Scully turned. Liquid spilled across her fingers. Transferring the cup to her other hand, she sucked on the throbbing digits. "How's Mulder?"

"It's a painful wound, but he'll be fine."

"He won't lose his arm like Mr. Cochrane?"

The doctor shook his head. "The arrow struck Mr. Mulder from a different angle. Rather than entering the shoulder, it actually skimmed across the upper arm."

"Can I see him?"

"Only for a few minutes. He needs rest."

"Which room?" Scully demanded, allowing Reese to reclaim the coffee cup.

"Just down the hall." The doctor's outstretched arm indicated the direction. "Room 105."

Even as she was eager to see her partner - and friend, Scully dreaded the confrontation. While waiting, she had argued both sides of the issue from her own point of view and Mulder's. No matter which side she took, the discussion always ended the same. Now, all she had to do was convince a certain stubborn partner.

Eyes glassy from pain and drugs, Mulder pressed the button to raise the head of his bed as Scully entered the room. "We finally have proof there are spirits, Scully. No one will dispute the testimony of four reliable witnesses, not to mention the incontrovertible existence of the deceased."

"According to the coroner's report," Scully said, squaring her shoulders ready for a fight. "Rick Barnes died of a self-inflicted wound. It's been ruled an accidental death."

"Accidental!" Forgetting his injury, Mulder started to rise. Pain aborted the action. His face pale, he allowed Scully to ease him back down on the hard mattress. "How can it be an accident? He was shot in the back in a sealed room?"

"With an arrow bearing traditional Lakota markings."

"That only strengthens our claim."

"What it does is provide a reason to start a war," Scully gently reminded. "The spirits saved your life, Mulder. Don't repay them by furnishing an excuse to annihilate their people."

Resting his head against his pillow, Mulder softly wailed, "Wouldn't you know it, I finally get the evidence I need, and I can't use it."

"Maybe next time," Scully soothed, gently patting his good arm.

* * * *

Despite her exhaustion, Scully found she couldn't sleep. Turning on the light next to her bed, she crossed to the table under the window and turned on her computer.

_They saved his life, but no one can ever know. I wish there was some way I could thank them. Yet, at the same time, I still find it difficult to believe they exist, even when there is no other explanation. This is one time, I want to believe._


End file.
